Goodnight, John-boy: Chapter 36
‘Another disability classic? What is it this time? A story about a braille mountain climber? Hmm? Rachel Feels the Rocks? Where will it all fucking end?’
Welcome to Book Two of my dark comedy thriller series, Read Em And Weep.
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If you’re new to the Read Em And Weep series, start with Book One: Serial Killer.
They were out of the hole. They were free. Back on The Spanker, and starting work on their new science fiction comic. Greg had stopped scalpel spinning. He’d stopped taking volcanic ash. He was wearing his usual ‘man in black’ clothes. He was almost normal again. Apart from his filterless German cigarettes: ‘Roth Handle’ – Red Hand. Rough, smelly and dirty.
Non-smoker Dave recoiled from the smoke. ‘The fumes in here are even fouler than when you were on the volcanic ash.’
‘They’re the cigarettes Germans soldiers used to smoke. Leni wants me to be like her dad now.’
Dave raised an eyebrow.
‘Don’t ask.’
They were playing ‘Splatoom!’ as they talked. A target was drawn on the wall next to the door and they were taking it in turns to hurl a ball of plasticine at it.
‘The skill comes from how much you mould the plasticine in your hand so it sticks to the wall,’ said Dave, scoring a bullseye. ‘A strong right hand is important.’
‘No problem in your case,’ said Greg, removing the plasticine from the wall.
‘So,’ said Dave, ignoring Greg’s jibe. ‘Our science fiction comic. We’ll do stories with robots. Aliens. Dinosaurs. Time Travel.’
‘Spaceships. Mutants. Futurecops. Deathgames,’ added Greg.
‘Still not sure how popular science fiction will be, but it’s a small price to pay for us getting out of The Hole.’
‘Correction, Dave. It’s a big price to pay. For me,’ said Greg bitterly, throwing the ball. ‘I’m the one who’s sleeping with a mad woman.’
‘Oh, she’s just mildly eccentric,’ Dave reassured him.
‘She has a Messiah complex.’
‘That’s not actually a clinical term or a diagnosable disorder. So it’s okay.’
‘It’s not okay, Dave. She thinks she can save the world.’
‘So does Superman.’
‘Leni is real. I need to get rid of her,’ said Greg desperately. ‘I need some sanity back in my life.’
‘You two will be great together. You’ll see.’
‘That’s good to know. Thanks,’ smiled Greg. ‘Cos Leni said I’ll be in charge of this new comic.’
‘What? You? She must be fucking mad.’
‘Apparently not, according to you.’
‘But I thought I’d be the editor.’
‘It was part of the deal. Mate.’
‘I see,’ said Dave bitterly, taking his turn with the plasticine. ‘So … your Sunset Boulevard routine finally paid off?’
‘You wouldn’t know what a casting couch is,’ jeered Greg.
‘I know what a casting desk is,’ said Dave. ‘How long did you have to spend crouched underneath it to persuade her?’
‘Too long.’ Greg shuddered at the memory as he aimed at the target.
‘Your tongue must be worn out,’ said Dave unsympathetically. ‘No wonder you’re so quiet these days.’
‘I earned my reward. I’m the editor. Not you. Got it?’
‘I hope you’re going to put a bit more research into your stories, then,’ said Dave, viciously hurling the plasticine at the wall with all his might.
‘What’s to research?’ said Greg, collecting the ball. ‘It’s science fiction. We just make it up.’
He hurled it equally savagely at the wall.
Dave removed it and squeezed it back into a ball. ‘Like your Moby Jaw, about a whale swimming up the Thames and crawling on his flippers to attack people in Piccadilly Circus.’
He flung it at Greg who ducked. ‘I felt that lacked a certain realism.’
‘So what new literary masterpieces are you dreaming up, Dave?’ Greg sneered, throwing the ball back at him. ‘Another disability classic? What is it this time? A story about a braille mountain climber? Hmm? Rachel Feels the Rocks? Where will it all fucking end?’
Dave closed in menacingly on Greg. ‘You know I’m getting a little bored with your snide comments and passive aggression.’
‘Okay,’ said Greg. ‘Let’s have some real aggression.’
Dave jumped on Greg and they rolled around on the floor, trying to shove plasticine in each other’s mouths. ‘You ponce around with your equivalent of an LBD,’ snarled Dave.
Greg moulded the plasticine to the contours of Dave’s face.
‘It’s how I get laid, Dave. It’s how I get to be the editor. Watch and learn, you freak.’
‘You only use women as surrogates because you really wanted to fuck Bernie,’ jeered Dave, shoving him away. ‘When you’re fucking them, you’re actually thinking of him.’
‘Better than wanting to fuck fur coats.’
‘Better than being the publisher’s gigolo,’ said Dave standing up.
‘At least I know what to do with her,’ Greg retorted. ‘What did you do? End up sticking it in her ear?’ He hurled another lump of plasticine at him.
The missile caught a glum-faced Ron in the face as he entered. He sniffed the air and his eyes flickered wildly from side to side. His lips bared and his hands reached for an invisible Sten gun as he recognised the familiar smell of the enemy.
It was 1944, and he was a nineteen-year old soldier again. Yelling ‘Down! Get down!’ he hit the ground.
Dave and Greg looked at Ron writhing on the floor, facing invisible enemies, and didn’t know what to say. There was a long, uncomfortable silence for several seconds as he lay there, fearfully cursing, ‘Fuck-shit-fuck-shit-fuck-shit.’
Then Ron recognised his surroundings. He got up. Adjusted his clothes, dusted himself off and, with a contemptuous curl of his lip at the two of them, walked out of their office.
There was a stunned silence after he had gone. Greg lit another Roth Handle. Finally Dave spoke: ‘Leni’s dad was probably smoking them on the Atlantic Wall.’
Greg looked at his cigarette. ‘That’ll be it.’ There was a further long silence.
‘Are you okay?’ Dave asked.
‘Not really,’ muttered Greg. ‘That was bad.’
‘That was bad,’ agreed Dave.
‘You know what?’ Greg said, slowly shaking his head. ‘I don’t think I can do this anymore. There’s only so much green snot I can eat. I’m going to end it with her.’
Dave nodded, with genuine empathy for a change. ‘I think you have to, Greg. I’m sorry.’
‘It’ll cost me the editorship, but what the fuck.’ Greg stubbed his cigarette out in the ashtray.
Dave went after Ron. He caught up with him as he approached his office.
‘Ron! Ron, are you okay?’ The managing editor ignored Dave and kept on walking with his usual proud military bearing.
‘Ron … what is it? What did you want? What did you come in for?’ Ron didn’t reply.
Outside Ron’s office, his secretary was sobbing, ‘Oh God. That’s terrible.’
Joy and Bridget Paris were trying to console her, and seemed close to tears themselves. Deep Throat and Tom Morecambe were close-by, having a hushed conversation with Dmitri and Guthrie.
‘What’s wrong?’ asked Dave, taking in the disturbing scene. ‘What’s happened?’
An ashen-faced Ron turned to Dave.
‘Ron …?’ Dave asked again.
‘The Major’s dead.’
‘How?’
‘In Soho. He was stabbed to death.’
Goodnight, John-boy is the second book in the Read Em And Weep series and you can buy it digitally or as a paperback.